


The Courier of the Picon Princess Requests the Pleasure of the Company of the Administrator of the Eupheme

by damalur



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003), Glee
Genre: Crack, Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-12
Updated: 2011-03-12
Packaged: 2017-10-16 22:07:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damalur/pseuds/damalur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Kurt meets the new delivery man is while he's signing off on some foodstuffs sent over from the <i>Picon Princess</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Courier of the Picon Princess Requests the Pleasure of the Company of the Administrator of the Eupheme

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Odyle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Odyle/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Курьер «Принцессы Пайкона» запрашивает дозволение администратора «Эвфема» провести совместно время](https://archiveofourown.org/works/964262) by [Rassda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rassda/pseuds/Rassda)



> This is but a mere cracklet (seriously, it's BSG/Glee fic, I don't know what even), and since I couldn't go running to you for help it is probably riddled with errors, but I did my best to ward off both misspellings and inaccuracies with ritualistic chanting and totems depicting Adama's head. Happy birthday, you geek-fabulous lady. ♥

The first time Kurt meets the new delivery man is while he's signing off on some foodstuffs sent over from the _Picon Princess_. The guy is so large that looks like he should be on the _Galactica_ 's deck crew, not ferrying supplies on some little flitter. Kurt signs a first form, signs a second form, and is in the midst of signing yet a third requisition form for more citrus fruits (to be returned to the _Princess_ —it's the seventh time he's had to ask) when the delivery man snorts.

Kurt arches an eyebrow with lethal accuracy. "What?"

"Nothing," the burly he-man says. His nametag reads _Karofsky_ , Kurt notes.

"No, really, something you'd like to share?" At fifteen, he would've let the subject drop; at twenty-three, curiosity and impatience get the better of him.

" _Picon Princess_ ," Karofsky says. "Seems like the kind of ship you'd be on. Never get those fancy clothes dirty."

"Excuse me, are you implying something?" Kurt spits.

"Not implying anything," Karofsky says, shifting to sullen and defensive under Kurt's glare.

"Another crack like that and I'll contact your superior," Kurt says, and shoves the clipboard at Karofsky's chest. "Get out of here."

Karofsky glowers over his shoulder as he leaves. And yes, Kurt knows that he might—he _might_ have overreacted, but he's sick of people implying that he's too young to manage logistics for such a large ship, that he dresses too well for a man so young. Just because his job doesn't involve moving large boxes from one point to another point, people think he barely lifts a finger. Kurt is sick of that implication, thank you _so_ much.

-

He meets up with Mercedes that evening—actually, it's more along the lines of _Mercedes bursts into his room that evening while he's struggling through a stack of paperwork_ , but it amounts to the same thing. She pulls him away from his desk and opens their second-to-last bottle of Leonis Estates Sparkling Wine; once sufficiently lubricated, they reminisce about fashion trends on Caprica and Gemenon before the Fall. After they wind their way through the merits of the pink business suit (Kurt is for, Mercedes against), Kurt starts to vent about his day.

" _Another_ one, honestly," he says. "Do I have some sort of sign attached to my back that says no, I am not really qualified for my position and yes, I did sleep my way onto a luxury liner?"

"Aw, Kurt," Mercedes says, "you're know they're just jealous."

"Ugh, you always say that," Kurt says, leaning back to scrub at his eyes.

"Well, it's either that or your baby-face," Mercedes says. "Or the fact that you're wearing a waistcoat that you made out of bedsheets like it's a million-dollar piece."

"Please, this old thing?" Kurt makes a face at her and manages to hold it for all of twenty seconds before they both dissolve into giggles.

-

The next week, Karofsky makes reference to Kurt's fingernails.

"They're so...clean," he says, and scowls in the general direction of Kurt's hands.

Kurt practically carves his name into the paperwork. "Here," he says.

Karofsky looms at him.

"And here," Kurt adds, slapping the requisition form for citrus fruits on top of the clipboard. He absolutely refuses to be intimidated by Karofsky's height or the breadth of his shoulders or whatever silly grudge he has against Kurt.

"I don't know what your problem is—"

"My problem?" Karofsky says. "You think _I_ have a problem?"

"I'm leaving," Kurt says. "I have engine parts to inventory."

-

"Sweetie, this is really getting you down, isn't it?" Mercedes says.

"Yes," Kurt says. "No. I don't know. He's just such an odious individual—Brittany, can I have your pudding?"

"Do you like pudding?"

"Yes," Kurt says. "No. I'm stress-eating. Thanks for stopping me."

"Oh," Brittany says. "I was just curious."

"You work too hard," Mercedes says. "Seriously, scale it back. Try sleeping six hours a night instead of four."

"Someone has to keep this ship in the air," Kurt mutters.

"Uh, yeah, but it isn't you," Mercedes says. "You don't have to spend all your time running back and forth between engineering and the kitchen like you're the only one who can calculate the payload."

Kurt eyes her. "I am the only one who can calculate the payload. Our captain is an idiot."

"Well—" Mercedes says. "Fine, that's true."

"Tell me about your problems instead," Kurt says. "Something. Anything."

"Sometimes I can't lick my elbow," Brittany offers.

"That's...strange, but thank you, Brit."

"I can't get my hands on birth control," Mercedes says.

Brittany tilts her head. "I don't have to worry about that."

"And even if you did, your girlfriend is the personal assistant of a member of the Quorum of Twelve," Kurt points out. "She could take care of it."

"You bitches," Mercedes says.

"Don't look at me," Kurt says. "I voted for Baltar."

-

A week later, Karofsky stares at him and makes vaguely threatening gestures with his fists.

"What are you looking at, man-breath?" Kurt says.

-

On that note, Kurt decides to take Mercedes' advice. He books a shuttle to the _Zephyr_ and spends two hours strolling through the gardens there, doing his best to think of nothing at all. His mother would've loved the flower beds; one of the few things he remembers about her is the floral scent she wore to work. His dad—well, Dad would have liked the hydroponics greenhouses.

He emerges from the natural labyrinth on the far side of the pyramid courts and decides that it couldn't really _hurt_ to watch a game. He wasn't ever a fan, but his dad followed the Buccaneers avidly. The feats of athleticism are impressive, even he has to admit; of course, it doesn't hurt that most of the players are muscular, gleaming, _shirtless_ men.

The bright lights and ambient warmth must lure him into a doze, because the next thing he's aware of is a body settling next to his. He looks over and says, "Rachel?"

"Hi, Kurt," she says. Her hair is pulled back. He hasn't seen her in person since...gods, for well over a year. She's hardly unfamiliar, though—Rachel Berry is famous as the face of the Fleet News Service.

"I thought you should know that Finn and I have decided to break up," she says.

Kurt doubts that Finn had anything to do with that decision, but he plays along. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"We had different goals. I know he's your step-brother..."

"We kind of drifted apart anyway," Kurt admits. "After—you know, our parents—I think I see you more often than him, actually."

"You should call him," Rachel says, and nods. Decision made. Kurt envies her certainty, although not her neuroses.

"You aren't the first person to give me good advice recently," he says. "It does sound like he could use a friend now."

"I did have a lasting and undoubtedly unmatched impact on his life," Rachel says.

"Mmm." As an excuse not to pursue that line of conversation, Kurt pretends to pay attention to the game. The players aren't bad, he has to admit—certainly far better than he'd expect in a pick-up match. Kurt's no judge, but one massive tank of a man almost seems fast enough to—

"Dave Karofsky," Rachel says. "He's good, isn't he? He used to play for the Panthers."

Kurt bolts upright. "What did you say?"

"He used to play for the Panthers," Rachel parrots.

"No, his name—"

"David Karofsky," Rachel says. "Is that significant?"

"Only in that I can't frakking get rid of him," Kurt says, and sinks back into his seat with a groan.

-

"You have grease on your face," Karofsky says, at their next delivery-slash-faceoff.

"How observant you are of my hygiene," Kurt snaps, ripping into the next carton to check the contents. He wouldn't put it past Karofsky to—wait.

Huh.

"There are oranges in here," Kurt says.

Karofsky shoves his hands in his pockets. "Uh, yeah," he says.

"I _never_ get oranges."

"I kind of have some pull with the _Princess_ ," Karofsky admits.

Kurt stares blankly.

"Because they're from Picon, and, uh, I used to play pyramid there."

"You...used your status to ask for oranges," Kurt says.

"Yeah."

"...For me."

Karofsky looks at the ground. "I thought it might make you like me," he says. "You ask for citrus fruits every week, so."

"Wait, wait." Kurt holds up a hand, squeezes his eyes shut, and takes a deep breath. "You want me to _like_ you? _Why?_ "

Karofsky shrugs and picks up his clipboard. "You know."

"I really, really don't," Kurt says, and casts his mind backward. "Hold on—have you been trying to _flirt_ with me this whole time?"

"Not very well, apparently," Karofsky says, and his mouth twists into this little, self-deprecating smirk. "You were kind of pissy towards me, so at first I thought you didn't like men, but then I asked that Berry woman and she said you did. Figured this would either work or it wouldn't."

"You are really, and I mean amazingly terrible at asking someone out," Kurt says. "I thought you were insulting me all along."

"Oh," Karofsky says. "I wasn't. And I got you oranges."

"You did get me oranges," Kurt agrees, and then sighs. "Well, I suppose someone needs to show you how it's done, at any rate."

"What?"

Kurt rolls his eyes. "Dave Karofsky," he says, "are you by _any_ chance free tomorrow evening?"


End file.
